


meek

by OneWhoTurns



Series: first impressions [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Assassin's Creed: Syndicate, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Inspired by Fanfiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 17:55:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17268740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneWhoTurns/pseuds/OneWhoTurns
Summary: Once more he relied on something besides his eyes, letting his Assassin senses pick out the figure before him. Shifting. Flickering. Fading and cutting in and out of the air itself: fascinating for how forcefully uninteresting it wanted to be.[A reverse POV version ofbrute.]





	meek

**Author's Note:**

> I really liked writing _brute_ but had a more specific version of the main character in mind. You can find a third person (instead of second person) version of _brute_ over on my FFnet page. Should I change the original here to be in third person, for the sake of continuity within a series? Let me know. 
> 
> Also... I unabashedly borrowed the concept of supernatural modesty from His Dark Materials (the witches and how they achieve invisibility).

He’d always assumed Evie was the only one who could do that. How, he wasn’t quite sure, but he wasn’t entirely concerned with it either; it was that same _instinct_ he had - that George had, that their father had had. It was part of being an Assassin. Jacob had an innate ability to aim under pressure, his sister could just… disappear. He’d never seen anyone else do anything like it. Or _not-seen_ it, as the case may be.

The first time he saw _her_ do it, he wasn’t even entirely sure that that was what was happening.

Doing a bit of light lifting from a fortuitously open window, he’d been mid-lock-picking (never quite as quick as Evie was, and it was a bit of a sore spot he’d never own up to) when a noise from the hall had driven him to his feet. Looking to the doorway he’d spotted a young woman: clear skin, unassuming clothes, and a textbook look of shock across her face that quickly morphed into puzzlement as she swept her gaze over him.

 _“Are you wearing a_ _**cravat**?” _

He couldn’t help but smirk at the question, its brashness clashing with the prim-and-proper accent clipping her tone.

There had been the briefest sight of widening eyes before… Jacob had just… lost interest. He’d had the oddest sensation of seeing _past_ something. Someone. It was disorienting. He’d blinked, but it was like empty space hanging in the air. Narrowing his eyes, trying to focus, he’d had the vague impression of a woman. A girl? No, a woman — probably. There was a face, maybe? Definitely a body. There was a _figure_ there, but he couldn’t _see_ right. And his eyes didn’t want to look, not when there was nothing there to see.

But of course, he didn’t have to use just his eyes. And with his Assassins’ abilities he _could_ see someone; a shifting, unimportant someone, merely flickering in his sight. But when he’d moved - when he’d stepped forward, and his sight had adjusted back to normal - she was back. Whoever she was. The young woman he suddenly remembered had been there to begin with. She wasn’t there for long though, turning tail before he truly had a chance to commit her face to memory, and this time when he stopped to watch her with more than his eyes she was no longer unimportant.

 

Even stranger, the memory was hard to hold onto.

 

It slipped from his mind like silk, just the tiniest thread remaining, caught, hooked by his willingness to believe it was true. And by that moment before she’d become all blurred edges and missing features. An indistinct memory of hair somewhere between light and dark, skin neither pale nor tanned; a young woman overwhelmingly average. Modest. Nothing exotic, nothing dangerous that should catch his eye. Jacob had to remind himself to think about it, to remember it, to keep her impossible vagueness in mind.

He hadn’t recognised her the second time.

She’d been someone else entirely.

Of course, Jacob rarely ever noticed the onlookers during a fight. Too busy focusing on the threats at hand. And she’d been just another face in the crowd. A pretty face, sure, along with her too-flushed, thoroughly dazzled companion. The companion was beautiful -- too beautiful to be in a fight club; skin like blushing porcelain, hair like sun-soaked wheat, eyes that even in the dim light of the foundry he knew were the purest green. All evident at a glance. She was too pretty for Southwark, but not dressed well enough to be true middle class. And dressed incredibly impractically in a posey pink. Deliriously in love, too, if the eyelashes batted at the mountain of a man at her side meant anything.

But the other one, her colouring somehow lost in the shadows beyond the ring... He’d been concentrating on his instinct, sensing for the general positions of his opponents, if more might be jumping in to join the fight, but her motion made his vision refocus. Her eyes had widened, lips (thinner than her friend’s, but lush nonetheless) had parted as though she might call out. Something had tickled at a far corner of his mind, but he’d been occupied with the meaning of her reaction, the sheer high of adrenaline and exertion rampaging through his system: the rush of a good brawl. He grinned his thanks even as he turned on his foes, thrashing them soundly.

It was only after the match, assessing his injuries, that he spotted the young woman again. Jacob had been taught manners at one point in his life (besides which, he had quite a bit of the usual post-fight maintenance to do) so he let himself take in her back -- the hair that spilled over her shoulders, the muted shade of her dress (grey? blue?) -- but then returned to his task. When she’d moved away, he’d glanced up, the motion catching his curious attention. Brownish blonde (blondish brown?) hair. Blue eyes. Somehow, despite the more reserved clothing, looking to be a bit more well-off -- more refined -- than her beautiful companion, who had by now wandered off to her sweetheart.

A polite nod, then it was time to tend to battered knuckles and the unfortunate graze of nails that had broken the skin of his chest. It had turned into quite the fight. His skin felt covered in grit and sweat and the omnipresent soot of the foundry, and his mouth a bit too bloody. Gulping down nearly a whole bottle of water, he began to unwrap the bandages on his hands. Not the worst. He uncorked some high-proof whiskey, pouring a bit over one hand. His jaw tightened a moment, but he refused to react to the sting of alcohol on open wounds. And he definitely _wasn’t_ peeking just to see if his audience had witnessed his toughing out the pain as he glanced back up before switching hands.

He _was_ , however, perhaps a little too pleased to find her staring. His lips curled into a smirk that only widened as she glanced around in confusion, until he was full-on grinning when she managed to meet his eyes at last.

"I'm flattered, madam, truly."

She really was quite pretty, wasn’t she? Subtly pretty. The blush that bloomed across her cheeks really suited her.

Then she did the thing.

One moment she was there, the next his eyes skipped past, redirected away from the sudden unnatural/ _too_ -natural blank impression of a person. A wave of disinterest quickly swelled within him, urging him to look somewhere else, think of something else; there was nothing to see, nothing to remember. But Jacob _did_ remember. Or he was starting to, at least. Something in his memory, blurred and shadowed.

Once more he relied on something besides his eyes, letting his Assassin senses pick out the figure before him. Shifting. Flickering. Fading and cutting in and out of the air itself: fascinating for how forcefully uninteresting it wanted to be. He set aside the makeshift antiseptic, leaning over the rails as he watched the gap in the air that might have been a person.

He let out a low whistle. "Impressive." How did she do it? Was this how Evie’s ability worked? It couldn’t be - not quite. His twin appeared differently in his Vision, in any case, more like an image refracted below the surface of water.

He drummed fingers against the boards, tapping out a faltering rhythm, wondering if she’d respond. She must assume he couldn’t see her. And he couldn’t, not really. But Jacob knew she was there. Stopping his percussion, he added, conversationally, the determined curiosity on his lips melting into something more casually pleasant; "Have we met?"

 _There._ His Vision adjusted, picking her out as a person of interest the way it did, and her silhouette was clear again.

He’d seen this before, he remembered it clearly now, and he’d seen it recently.

The girl in the city. The maid.

The eyes that scanned his face were actually quite lovely: a grey blue like clouds filled with rain, a colour that should be more memorable than it had been. The colour, the ability, reminded him of Evie -- but mostly her expression: a passive annoyance at his mere existence. He just barely held back a snicker.

In another moment a fleeting, instantaneous thought flashed through his mind, wondering what he had found so entertaining; the creature before him was unremarkable -- but then he remembered. And had to adjust his eyes _again_ , pulling the blurred features into focus even as she shook her head. This was going to get tiresome, he realised, but he’d be damned if he gave up now. Jacob was far too curious and far too stubborn for that.

"You're sure?" He almost wanted to laugh, his own confidence in his memory too clear on that expression she’d given him. Perhaps it was his Assassin abilities fending off whatever trick this was, perhaps it was just the familiarity of a look he’d been getting from his twin for the last twenty years. He was getting under her skin, and he liked it.

She nodded.

It was a game now, at least to him. Her denial, his assuredness. He struggled to keep a straight face, pulling back a bit from the boards. “Really? Because I could’ve sworn you insulted my impeccable fashion sense.” Just remembering it -- _are you wearing a **cravat**? _ \-- he was tapping a toe restlessly in his boot in an attempt to quell the urge to laugh. She really thought he’d forgotten? (Well, alright, he had, but not for long.)

As she slipped into full focus again, he absently admired the sharp look in her eyes, the cut of her jaw, the flush of heat colouring her skin. Then she ducked once more behind this supernatural veil of modesty, dulling every part of her. "I think you may have mistaken me for someone else, sir."

She was trying so _hard_. He should at least give her credit for the effort.

"You are _very_ good at that.” The compliment was genuine, if given in a more casual manner than what might be appropriate for the extraordinary ability in question. He couldn’t stop the grin breaking over his features, couldn’t stop the playful tone pervading his words. "Tell me: do all the boys get this treatment, or am I special?"

Finally, _finally_ , she dropped the affect, though Jacob wasn’t sure how intentional the lapse was. A soft cough caught in her throat, and one corner of his mouth cocked up a bit more, almost positive she was trying not to laugh.

“Please tell me I’m special,” he added, teasingly.

A rush of satisfaction finally crested in him as the hint of a smile very briefly lit on her lips, something in her adjusting, relaxing perhaps, her body language opening up, turning toward him, and he felt relatively sure she wouldn’t be disappearing again in the next minute or two. With that surety in mind, he let himself continue his post-fight clean up.

Disinfecting his other hand, he retrieved the medicinal ointment that had been a go-to since his training days, patting the greasy substance onto cuts, rubbing it into the rosy raw skin that wasn’t quite broken enough to bleed. He glanced to her curiously, wondering if she’d respond. He knew the answer wouldn’t be yes -- she wasn’t just hiding from _him_ \-- but he _did_ hope he was special. That perhaps he was the only one seeing through it. Based on her expression, the way her fingers twitched, as though she was trying to hold something back, the small, tentative steps she took closer to him, he was optimistic. He tried not to seem quite so eager for her response as he re-bandaged the worst of his souvenirs.

"...You…" She looked delightfully perplexed, and he felt vindicated. So she _hadn’t_ experienced something like this before. Good. He liked being the first.

Impulsively, he reached forward, offering a hand. “Jacob. Frye."

He was taken aback by the sudden disdain - amused as it was - that coloured her gaze. She was a _maid_ , right? Not some fine lady too good for an honest man’s handshake. (He had a broad definition of ‘honest.’) Had he done something--? Ah. He spotted the shine of balm coating his damaged hands. Understandable, then. Didn’t want to stain her lovely little gloves. Lips quirked up once more as he nodded, conceding that at least he’d made an effort. Besides, the way she looked at him -- a single eyebrow arched: a rather brazen rejection -- just added another facet to this mysterious character. It reminded him of her first words. This person who so clearly was not what she often pretended to be.

"You're… _something_ , Mister Frye," she finally capitulated.

There was that sparking glow of (likely undeserved) pride in his chest at her words, grinning unabashedly. “I’m taking that as a compliment,” he informed her, tempted to return the exact same sentiment. She was _something_ , alright. Ally or enemy, he still wasn’t sure. And neither was Jacob sure how much he _cared_.

Her smile was wry, sardonically amused as she let out a soft chuckle, searching out someone in the crowd (her beautiful companion, no doubt). There was something in the way her expression changed -- something playfully vicious toying at the corners of her lips, a sharp glint in her too-observant eyes -- that belied the meek and modest persona she’d worn earlier. From the excessively polite avoidances she’d made, she now spoke with an almost-teasing forthrightness he very much enjoyed. “It wasn’t meant as one.”

This was an invitation to banter, and he accepted readily. It was hard not to place a hand over his chest as he scoffed false affrontedness, features a pantomime of hurt. “You wound me, madam.”

She seemed preoccupied with one thought or another as the word slipped from her tongue: “Miss.”

It was like a short static shock on his skin - though not at all unpleasant - his brows lifting with a touch of delight at the implication of her correction. He couldn’t stop the reflexive smirk on his lips, growing stronger as she quickly cleared her throat and turned away, seeming to realise just how far she’d slipped from her modest facade. A _miss_ , eh? Even if she was as much of a stickler for propriety as she obviously wished to seem, the blush that had crept over her skin made it clear he wasn’t wrong interpreting a secondary motive - conscious or unconscious - to her interjection.

He knew he was pressing his luck even as he leaned forward again, resting on the forearms perched on the fighting ring. “Miss…?”

She was walking away, but he spotted a small smile on the brief glimpse of her lips as she replied, flippantly, barely angling her words over her shoulder: “Congratulations on your win, Mister Frye."

 


End file.
